


BLUE BLANKETS AT THE PALACE

by Zoya1416



Series: THE PATRICIAN'S BABY [1]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Gen, single parent, single parent panic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A child is left unexpectedly at the Ankh-Morpork Palace, and the Patrician suddenly faces his most unexpected challenge. </p>
<p>AU after THUD<br/>Before SNUFF</p>
            </blockquote>





	BLUE BLANKETS AT THE PALACE

**Author's Note:**

> This all belongs to Pratchett. The baby and mother are mine, though.

Sam and Sybil were settling in for an unusual free evening together. There was no criminal to be chased. The swamp dragons were digesting well—adding a pinch more sandstone had smoothed out their intestinal tracts. Young Sam was sleeping and quiet. Sam looked over at his wife, who was darning him a wool neckerchief out of a new fiber from Lancre, angora, softer and lighter than regular wool. She had finally noticed him  
rubbing his feet one evening and demanded to see the knotty red lines on his soles. 

There had been a scene, with him saying, 

“Look, you wanted to make me happy, and I was so happy you were doing something for me—that some woman wanted to take care of me—that I never said anything.”

“Sam Vimes, you are an idiot! You should have told me years ago! I never wanted to make your feet hurt. I want to be a good wife to you.”

“You are, in every single way. I'm the luckiest man on the Disc, so very lucky.”

She'd never darned a sock since, buying him the thickest and softest in the city. But she still wanted to do for him, so she'd started on neckerchiefs. He had half a dozen now,plus a cap with a bobble which he wouldn't tell her made him look about six.

No matter. She was so beautiful and so desirable that he couldn't pretend to read anymore. He got out of his chair and walked around behind her, rubbing her shoulders. She sighed. He kept rubbing, gradually removing all the knots, and was about to get her relaxed enough to take to bed, when Willikins entered.

“Ahem, Lady Sybil, your Grace, a gentleman from the Palace is here. He says you both must come with him.”

“Now? Sam growled. This precious time with his wife, so rare, to be squandered in some Watch mess—wait a minute—“Why does he want Sybil?”

“He didn't say. But he is quite distraught. It's Drumknott, your Grace.” 

Sam and Sybil looked at each other. Drumknott almost never came himself; he was too senior a secretary to be dragged out at night, unlike Sam, who was a mere Commander of the Watch, and Duke of Ankh-Morpork.

Drumknott had the black carriage turned around in the driveway and beckoned them in.

“Quickly, quickly, now. His Lordship needs you.”

“If you're breaking up my only free evening with Sybil in a month--” growled Sam.

“Two.” said Sybil. She wasn't growling, but the reverberations going down his spine told her she was very unhappy too.

“What's the matter, Drumknott? Have we broken out in war somewhere?”

“No, your Grace.” And Drumknott made a noise which sounded very much like a laugh covered by a cough.

“More like love than war. You'll have to see.”

They drew into the Palace gate, and hurried upstairs to the Oblong Office. A noise made its presence known as Drumknott hustled them along quickly.

“What's that? A cat? Man likes dogs, not cats,” said Sam. Besides him, Lady Sybil gasped, then threw an amused glance aside at Drumknott.

“Really? How did this happen?”

“Let him explain it.”

The doors were open between the waiting room and the office, and Sam Vimes stopped, arrested by a vision he'd never imagined. Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, was holding a small baby in his arms, and rocking it in an unsuccessful attempt to stop its crying.

“What the gods is that?” said Sam, unnecessarily, and Sybil and Vetinari glowered at him.

“Here, Havelock, give him to me. It is him, right? Do you have a bottle?” Sybil's voice was firm, commanding, and utterly in charge. As she took the baby, the Patrician raised his hands in helpless surrender.“There's a basket. I was looking through it when he started crying.”  
Sybil dumped out the basket and selected a nursing bottle. There was milk, too, and she quickly filled it, took the baby, and sat down.

“Here, take my chair, it's more comfortable.” said Vetinari.

She did. Vetinari sank down into a visitor chair, and so did Sam, regarding the amazing spectacle of his wife in the Patrician's seat. She looked good there.

“How did this happen, your Lordship?” started Sam, but Vetinari glowered at him.

“The usual way, your Grace. You don't need to know the details.”

“Oh, I think we do,” replied Sam, holding a hand in front of his smile, and was rewarded with a truly filthy look.

“Stop it, Sam.” The baby had taken hold of the nipple eagerly. “Havelock, we don't mean to pry, but do you know how old your son is? Was everything right when he was born?”

And Sam stopped laughing to himself, because Vetinari was turning anguished eyes on Sybil.

“I don't know how old he is! She said a week, but she didn't say when, and she said everything was okay. And then she left! She gave me the basket and left!”

“The mother left him with you? And she's not coming back?”

There was a dumb nod. At a 'go-on' questioning nod from Sybil, Vetinari sat back and put his hand to his forehead. To Sam's alarm, the Patrician was shaking.

“I met her at a reception at the Assassin's Guild. We had both given small lectures there. She's really quite amazing—has traveled the Disc, been everywhere. She used to be a big-game hunter, but now mainly travels to see different cultures. The next day she came over here for dinner, and we talked for hours. It was so very late, and then..."

Sam couldn't help himself. “And you didn't try to, that is, prevent?”

“Sam!” snapped Sybil. “That is an extremely rude question!”

Sam shut up, not without thinking that his mother had hounded him constantly, when he was young, to do the right thing by a girl and use a Sonky, “Every time, young man, every time!”

Vetinari continued to look at his hands. “She is fifty years old. I'm nearly that. She'd been married before with no children. I didn't think of it as a possibility, but then she left town. I haven't seen her from that night to this.”

He looked at them, blue eyes wide. “I haven't any preparations besides what she left me in the basket. I don't have a crib, or a wet nurse, or blankets, or, or, or—nappies, anything!”

“Calm down, Havelock.” Lady Sybil ordered. “You're acting like a dragon who clutches too early. You're going to be fine.”  
The baby finished his bottle. Sybil burped him efficiently, then was rewarded with a line of milky spit over her shoulders. Sam automatically reached for a handkerchief, while Vetinari stared.

“Why is he sick? What's the matter with the milk? That's what she left!” Vetinari was almost babbling. 

“He's fine. Sam,” directed his wife, “why don't you take Havelock out for a bit. Maybe he needs a glass of whiskey.”

They reached a small parlor Sam had never seen, for which Drumknott quickly kindled a fire. There was a small drinks cabinet, and Sam poured out a whiskey, smelling the fumes and being grateful he had his cigars. He handed it to Vetinari.

Vetinari leaned back against the couch, sipping the drink. His breathing finally slowed.“I asked her why she hadn't told me, especially since she planned on leaving him with me all along. She said she'd been out of the city when he was born. Something about delivering him in Klatch on a camel, or beside a camel, or something. Said she really didn't know she was expecting.”

“How could she not know?” said Sam, startled, and then realized he didn't want to know the answer to that.

Vetinari shrugged. “Some female thing. And she's such a large woman, too, said she didn't notice she'd gained much weight. Full-figured, so much to hold...like Sybil.”

Vetinari seemed to realize he was indiscreetly babbling to the husband of Sybil Ramkin, and stopped. He cut his eyes away from Vimes, who was glaring.

Drumknott returned, and called them back in. Lady Sybil reported:

“I put the baby here, across from your bedroom, and the maids are setting up a changing table for him. You'll have to get a real one but this is good for now. A kitchen maid's daughter is available to wet-nurse. She's got a new one, said she nursed twins the last time and had no problems. She's coming over now. They'll go out for nappies in the morning; the maids are tearing up some towels for tonight.”

“Your rooms are too cold for a baby,” she continued. “You'll give him grippe and he may catch cold if it's not warm enough. I don't think you need anything more tonight. I'll be back tomorrow, early.”

Sybil turned away and Vetinari said, his voice choking, “I, I—I can't go to sleep. Someone might hurt him.” 

Sam had never seen those eyes fearful before, even when the Patrician had been poisoned or wounded.

“Your Grace? How do you keep Young Sam safe—I know there was that terrible dark dwarf business—Sybil is alone during the day. How do you stand it?”

Sam thought about the fact that his butler was a former vicious street gang fighter, with access to heavy knives, and that his wife had a couple of dozen flaming dragons, and then remembered that terrible moment when he'd seen a small dark figure bent on murder enter his son's bedroom ahead of him. It still wasn't clear what had happened, but the dwarf had been thrown out of the nursery by an unseen force.  
He never wanted to remember that choking, heart-stopping, black rage-filled moment, when he was afraid for his son's life.

Clearing his throat, he said, “It's not something we advertise, but we've got a couple of golems now. One is outside Sam's nursery all the time. The other is with Lady Sybil and the dragons.”  
“Quite helpful, too,” put in Sybil. “I should have realized long ago that a non-flammable dragon pen assistant was exactly what I needed. He's perfect. He can hold them when they're starting to get bloaty, and let me get a pill down their little throats, and--”

“Sybil.” her husband said gently. “I think his Lordship can hear about the dragons later. “We can let you have the dragon pen golem tonight, and you can reach Miss Dearheart tomorrow.”

“Yes. But I will not leave him in another room. I shall put him in here with me.”

Vetinari brought in the basket with its blue blanket, and discovered that there was not enough room for the big basket by the small single bed.

“Drumknott,” he said, with something like his usual authority. “You will prepare a larger room here for us, tomorrow. Have it remodeled so that the nurse and the nursery attendant will stay next to us, with a door connecting the rooms, but no entrance to my bedroom except through theirs. The golem will stand outside the door. Let me know when the golem is here. I shall put the child down then.”

Vetinari turned back to Sam and Sybil. 

“Thank you. I am most grateful that you came. I think we can manage now.”

He nodded, and moved back towards his bedroom. 

Sybil said, “What's his name, Havelock?”

Vetinari tensed again, and the baby started to whimper. Sam was rewarded with the sight of the Patrician awkwardly swaying back and forth, trying to rock his child.

Vetinari looked up. “I shall tell you tomorrow. Good night.”

 

Ten hours later Sam and Sybil returned to the Palace. Sam had taken morning report, and fielded questions from the Watch about the Patrician's baby. It should have been expected. Nothing stayed quiet in Ankh-Morpork, and too many people had been involved, from the carriage driver who'd delivered the woman and basket to the Palace, to the wet-nurse's mother-in-law, who lived in. The nurse's mother, the Palace kitchen-maid, was loyal, and hadn't said a thing.

Sam met William de Worde and Sacharissa Cripslock coming down the main stairwell, and, predictably, they pounced on the Ramkin-Vimes' for information about “the Patrician's love child.”

Drumknott pulled Sam and Sybil into the Oblong Office. They could hear hammering from the private quarters. The office now held a rocking chair, which contained a fast asleep child and a Patrician with closed eyes. A little drool was running out of each mouth.

Drumknott noticed them staring at Vetinari, and gently went over to the rocking chair. He patted the Patrician's shoulder gently, and when the man started, gave him a handkerchief. 

Vetinari took a deep breath. “The child didn't sleep last night, so I talked to him. Then when I brought him in here this morning he fell asleep right away. This won't do. I have appointments!”

Sybil said, carefully, “Havelock, you need to take some time off. This is going to be a huge adjustment, and you need at least a few days. You can't go without sleep.”

“I hardly sleep now. I didn't know it would be so different. I can't rest.”

Sam said, “You need to. I took several days when Young Sam was born, and I knew he was coming and Sybil was there.”

“Sam Vimes, you did NOT take time off, and I asked you to. You'd just gotten back from that horrible Carcer thing, and had to go see him hanged first thing.”

“Yes, but I didn't go back to the office. That day, anyway. Even if I did sleep all day. And the next day I came home at six o'clock.”

“That, you did. And I'm so glad that you still get home then, even if you go out.”

The couple smiled at each other, and then guiltily at the lone man.

“Sybil's right, you know,” said Sam. “You don't want to be so tired that you can't concentrate on your appointments. Ankh-Morpork needs that. Sir?”

Vetinari's eyes had slipped closed again.

Sam turned to Drumknott. “Clear his schedule except for the direly important for two days. And you need to talk to the press. I saw the de Worde's here.”

“I do not intend to speak to anyone about my personal life.”Vetinari said, his eyes still closed.

“Sir,” Drumknott said, “They already know you have a child. The whole city will know by tonight. You have to say something, or let me.”  
Sam suggested "An announcement something like this: Lord Havelock Vetinari is pleased to announce the birth of his son,--what did you decide to call him?”

“Robert. For my aunt Roberta.”  
“pleased to announce the birth of his son, Robert—and a middle name?”  
“No.”  
“Robert, who was born--”  
“Sektober 23, at nine o'clock in the morning, weighing 8 pounds, twelve ounces.”said the still resting Patrician.  
“Really? You didn't tell us last night.”

“I found a note, at the bottom of the basket.”

Sam concentrated, amazed that he could actually dictate a press statement now, when there hadn't even been a press a few years ago.  
“Mother and child are doing well. Robert will reside here in the city with Lord Vetinari while his mother completes her trip to--?  
“Brindisi, I think, but I don't know. And I really do not know after that.”  
“Brindisi. Just give them a little bit today. They don't need to know that she may not come back.”

“Drumknott, put it out. Please, Lady Sibyl, can you step along to the nursery and examine it? Your Grace—I will talk to you, while, while,” he yawned, and the baby started to slip. Sam tried to pick him up, and Vetinari was awake with a snarl. Then he rose, marched away to his apartments, and closed the door. Sam debated telling him that his baby really needed a nappy change to avoid a rash, then decided it was something the new father would have to learn. The papers were lurid for the next two days, while the Patrician stayed in the Palace and saw no-one. 

“PATRICIAN'S LOVE CHILD ABANDONED AT THE PALACE GATE!”

“UNNATURAL MOTHER SCORNS HER CHILD!”

“PATRICIAN DEMANDS MOTHER SURRENDER CHILD TO HIM!”

“LAX MORALS CONDEMNED BY PRIESTS!” That was true, because it was a quote from the priests at Blind Io, Offler the Crocodile-headed, and the Omnians—two years ago after the break-up of a gambling ring in the upper classes.

“LOVE-CHILD IS A KLATCHIAN!” Apparently that was true, since the birth, beside, not on, a camel, had occurred in Klatch.

“MOTHER OF LOVE CHILD IS TALULLAH TALLTHORPE, sources say.”

That one was also correct. The TRUTH reporter who scooped that one had calculated back to the date of the child's probable conception, looked through the files for the Patrician's activities, and talked to relevant sources, finally unearthing the Assassin's Guild dinner. But no one could determine where she was now. The storm began to pass after a week, when the headlines switched to:

“WATCHMAN IN CLUB RAID!” because Reg Shoe had been talking to the owner of the Blue Cat Club about the lack of undead representation in the  
club's dancers when a Lance-Constable came in for a noon show. Both watchmen were embarrassed to see each other, and their exit together was caught by a reporter.

“WOMEN GIVES BIRTH TO TWENTY POUND BABIES” Twins, each weighing nine pounds, were the actual facts, and so it went on. The Patrician's love-child  
dropped to below the fold, then third page, then off altogether. For a few days everything was quiet at the Palace.

Oblong office official visitors cooed at the little figure in the blue bassinet,even as they noted some changes. The windows had new louvered shutters which lowered the light levels, the room was far warmer than ever, and along the top of the walls had been  
painted an alphabet frieze. The discerning visitor would read, however, that instead of the usual “A is for Apple,” the letters started with “A is for Assassin, B is for Blade, C is for Camouflage,” and continued in a manner both heart-warming and disturbing. Most disturbing of all, the cold-eyed Patrician of Ankh-Morpork had now obtained a book of iconographs which visitors had to peruse before business was completed. In one of them he smiled (smiled!), holding the boy in his arms. They were wearing identical blue knit caps. With bobbles on them.


End file.
